Blood Is Not Thicker Than Magic
by Ellory
Summary: Pure-blood Culture: Lady Isla Potter has waited her entire life to be presented at Court to the Dark Lord. Lord Slytherin has waited even longer than that for her to appear.


**Title:** Blood Is Not Thicker Than Magic (And Life Is Meant To Be Tragic)

 **Pairing:** Marvolo Gaunt/Isla Potter

* * *

Dark Magic was beautiful.

It was enchanting, luxurious, and seductive. It was a whisper against soft skin, and a brush of lips against blood-soaked hair. It beckoned you closer, one baby step at a time, until shadows wrapped around you—an impenetrable defense.

It was everything that Light Magic wasn't.

Light Magic was hideous.

It was blunt, rough, and jittery. It was lye soap against raw wounds, and needles of ice water running down your spine. It grabbed hold of you and yanked you around, like a child with its favorite toy—not a hint of finesse or care in sight.

Lady Isla Potter would never forget the difference between the two. How could she, when she had been forced to leave her birth home (where Dark Magic painted every surface) for another? Being inside a manor drenched in Light Magic was, Isla imagined, like spending your life knowing you were a Mermaid, only to be hauled onto a beach and left to gasp for air that would never come.

"Ready, dearie?" Missus Euphemia Potter asked.

Isla closed her eyes, loathing the patronizing nickname her aunt had given her at the start of the summer. She had been forced to move in with her aunt and uncle after the school year ended, because her parents had passed away. She might have had to live there until she was of age (curse the Ministry and their uninformed laws to the deepest depths of Azkaban), but she wasn't a simpleton. She was sixteen years old, not three.

"Yes, Aunt Euphemia," Isla replied. Usually, she was excited for summer. Even more so, she was ever delighted to return to Hogwarts. She was descended, after all, from Lord Gryffindor—regardless of how distant that relation might be. Right then, though, Isla was tired. She was weary. And her aunt and uncle had only heaped more exhaustion upon her.

"All right, squirt! Time to head out!" Mister Fleamont Potter said with a dorky grin on his face.

For a moment, Isla allowed a favorite fantasy to play out in her head: one in which she punched her uncle in the face. Every time the man opened his mouth, he reminded her in the most painful of ways that her parents were dead of dragon pox. Because her father, Mother Magic bless his soul, would never call her that. She was his princess, his dearest one, his blessing, his greatest treasure.

A ghost of a kiss lit upon her brow; Isla's hazel eyes, staring back at her in the foyer mirror, blurred.

"Is everything all right, dearie? You look a mite peaky. Too excited to sleep last night?" Euphemia tutted.

She grabbed Isla in a hug; that, too, was wrong. Isla's mother, Dorea Potter nee Black, never grabbed for her. No, her mother would fold her close in her arms, a safe haven to block out the rest of the world.

"May we leave, please?" Isla asked. Somehow, Mother Magic gave her patience. All she wanted to do was scream her pain. She had not often been left alone over the summer; each time Euphemia or Fleamont spoke to her felt like an intrusion on her grief.

What business of theirs was it if she wanted to cry for weeks, or not eat for days, or wear only the brightest of ivories? She was a Dark Witch, and white was the color of agony unbearable—the color of Light Magic. They had no right to suggest she change into ebonies; she wasn't a Light Witch in mourning.

"Sure thing, squirt."

Fleamont reached for her arm, to Apparate her to Platform 9 ¾, but Isla forced herself to return her aunt's hug. The man, if he could dare to call himself that, had appeared at her side her first evening in the manor with a hairbrush in hand. Isla had thrown up all over him. She didn't know the Light Witch etiquette on the topic, because such knowledge had never been necessary, but Isla wouldn't let a Light Wizard brush her hair for anything. She still hadn't forgiven him for assuming he had the right to her magic. She had felt its balance shift as Mother Magic bequeathed it to her cousin, Heir Sirius Black, upon her father's death.

As long as a Dark Wizard held the right to a Dark Witch's magic, through brushing her hair, he could siphon it at any time. The longer a witch's hair grew, the more magic she stored in it.

Isla's heart ached at the renewed memory of her father's loss. Lord Charlus Potter had been powerful on his own; so powerful that he had never needed to bow to the oligarchy. With access to her mother's magic, as well as her own, Isla had never feared losing her parents. Because only those who followed the correct rituals, and loved and obeyed Mother Magic, received her blessings. In duels, he never lost.

Then a dragon came not to steal a princess, but to leave a pox behind.

"I'll take you then, dearie. We have to go or we'll be late!" Euphemia said, before Disapparating with Isla in her arms.

Sound inundated Isla: laughter, weeping mothers, delighted cries as friends reunited, hurried yells and reminders. It was a stark contrast to the near silence of the manor in which she had spent the summer imprisoned.

For the first time in months, Isla breathed a sigh of relief. The wards encasing Platform 9 ¾ were Neutral Magic. She felt, if not safe, at least not stifled any longer. Her parents had been dead six months and three days. She felt safer in public than she did with blood relatives; what a horrible twist her life had taken.

"Here's your trunk," Fleamont said, before handing her the shrunken object. Isla placed it in her pocket for later, with a reminder to cleanse it; she didn't want even the smallest remnants of his Light Magic around the items she stored in it. Her ritual robes and jewels were within, and she couldn't chance them becoming corrupted by negative energy.

"Thank you, Uncle Fleamont," Isla replied. Courtesy and kindness, she reminded herself. They were oft repeated words when it came to her aunt and uncle. They weren't bad people, per se, they just weren't her type of people. They weren't Dark; they didn't understand her in the slightest.

"Welcome, squirt." He grinned at her as if he expected one in response. Isla had no idea why he would. Then Fleamont shattered the foundation of her world for a second time within seven months. "Keep an eye out for owls! Some presents should be headed your way," he ended in a faux whisper and winked at her.

"I beg your pardon?" He couldn't possibly mean that the way it sounded.

Euphemia slapped Fleamont on the shoulder. Isla took an instinctive step backward at the gesture. Her horror grew each time she witnessed such things between them. Even in jest, her parents never hit each other. Such casual violence between people who professed to love each other was frightening. How were Light Magic wizards and witches so depraved?

"The courtships were supposed to be a secret, Flea!" Euphemia grumbled.

"Courtships? Plural?" Isla croaked, and it was a croak, much to her embarrassment.

He couldn't have, could he? Had her Uncle Fleamont truly given more than one wizard the right to court her at the same time? What Dark Wizard would dare sink—Merlin, that was just it, wasn't it? It wasn't a Dark Wizard. Her uncle had agreed to allow Light Wizards—still plural—to compete for her hand. Isla pressed a palm to her lips at the realization, even though she had skipped breakfast. If she hadn't, she would have vomited all over her uncle again.

Tears stabbed at her eyes. Isla had never been so humiliated in her entire life. She had never felt more disrespected, not even when Lily Evans had attempted to borrow her hairbrush (it wasn't the Mudblood's fault she was ignorant; and Heir Prince had ensured she received an appropriate apology after Evans complained to him).

"Isn't it wonderful?"

Isla spun around and stalked away, heart galloping in her chest like a herd of wild Abraxans. No, it wasn't wonderful. It was a nightmare she hadn't even conceived until the words had just spilled from her relatives' lips, fully birthed and weaned. Hypothetically, until she was seventeen years old, Fleamont could sell her to any Light Wizard that caught his fancy.

She couldn't allow that.

Her parents would do more than roll over in their graves. They might welcome the chance to return as Inferi, regardless of how undignified that was, just to murder her aunt and uncle.

"Isla, how are you?"

"Lady Isla, my condolences on—"

"You've been holed away all summer, and—"

"May I help you, Lady Potter?" Heir Lucius Malfoy asked when she stopped beside him. His hand was on his younger sister—Amalia's—shoulder.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting your farewell, Heir Malfoy, but I require your assistance." Isla accepted reality. Hers had just changed again; it was about to alter even more. Though the main branch of the Potter family had been Dark since Iolanthe Peverell bonded with the, then, Heir of the Family, they had never bowed to the Dark Lord. They had never bothered to dabble in the Court. They were content to live in their Unplottable manors inventing potions that changed the entire wizarding world. "Will you escort me to see him? Please."

Lucius stared over her shoulder. "Your uncle seems displeased to see you speaking with me, Lady Potter."

A sneer overtook Isla's face. "My uncle would see me bonded to a Light Wizard." She was satisfied to see both Amalia and Lucius cringe at her announcement.

He stepped away from his sister and offered Isla his arm. She took it, ignoring her uncle's shout—whether it was outrage or disbelief or mere shock, she didn't care. It was the lengthiest Apparation trip she had ever taken. The wards around the Dark Lord's home were immense.

"All right?" Lucius asked as he steadied her.

"No," Isla replied. Nothing in her life was all right. Hopefully, the Dark Lord could fix that.

"You've never been presented at Court. Your father didn't even present you as a baby, if memory serves."

Isla sighed and walked at Lucius' side toward the imposing manse. It was even more palatial than Potter Manor. The grounds were immaculate. It overflowed of wealth without being gaudy or prissy. She was impressed, despite herself. "Memory serves you well, Heir Malfoy."

"I'm honored you chose me, then, for your presentation." It was sincerely said.

"I never wanted this to happen," Isla whispered. But even as she spoke the words, she knew they were not entirely true. Oh, she hadn't ever wanted to meet him in such circumstances; no, their meeting had never taken place like this in her countless daydreams. Isla had built a fantasy world around winning the Darkest heart of all.

It had been a foolish pursuit.

Sirius had warned her again and again not to obsess over an idea, over someone she had never even met. The Blacks, better than anyone else, knew the effects of a broken heart.

So Isla had fought against her own mind and imagination. It hadn't been easy. But, in the end, she persevered. She put away childish imaginations and hopes. Isla banished all chance of ever being presented to the Dark Lord from her mind.

Now, two years later, her untouchable dream was becoming her reality.

"Hold still," Lucius ordered. His wand hummed with magic as he Transfigured her clothes. Her mourning robes turned into a set of the finest ebony robes she had ever seen, let alone worn. They felt like gossamer and fairy's hair. "Perfect." Lucius smirked, and then he looked away before casting two final spells. The first left her barefoot. The second unraveled her hair. The mass of darkness was proof of her father's love and care; if Lucius broke protocol to sneak a peek at it, she would kill him where he stood.

Isla prayed for . . . she didn't know what.

"Your full name and title?" Lucius queried, gaze still averted as he approached the front door. Isla told him. Lucius stumbled. If he turned around to gawp at her in shock, she wouldn't be surprised. She would still end his life, though. "Right." Lucius knocked five times on the door.

It opened with nary a sound.

Then he stood before her. Not Marvolo Gaunt, her father's potions partner, not Lord Slytherin, the darling of Wizarding Britain, but the Dark Lord. "Lucius," he hissed.

Isla shivered, and even though Marvolo wasn't looking at her yet, she knew he noticed. He wasn't the type of wizard who missed a single detail. His magic flared out around him, dominant and fierce, and as heady as hers was when she felt secure enough to unbridle it.

 _Now_ , a voice whispered in her head.

She dropped the restraints as Lucius began Presenting her. Her magic surged with wild glee, delighting in its unexpected bout of freedom.

"My Lord," Lucius said, bowing at the waist, then rising, "I Present Isla Iolanthe Potter, Lady Potter, Lady Peverell, High Lady of Eternal Death."

Marvolo's eyes fell on her and _devoured_ her. She knelt before him and kissed his proffered hand. "My Lord Darkness," she breathed against his skin.

He twisted his wrist, cupped her chin, and guided her face up so she could see him. Marvolo brushed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip before turning to Lucius. "Lady Gaunt, Lady Slytherin, the Dark Lady," he finished.

Lucius nodded and backed away. "As is your right, my lord. I'll adjourn now, unless you require my services." A sharp flick of Marvolo's finger had Lucius Disapparating in moments.

"You'll not deny me." Marvolo's voice was a soft rasp. Each word sounded like her beloved Dark Magic felt. "You kept me waiting for decades, beloved. I'll wait no longer."

Isla hugged the endearment close as he raised her back to her feet. "I'll not deny you, darling."

When he drew her into a hug, he was careful. When he claimed her lips, he was gentle. Despite all his desperate wanting, which his magic transmitted to her, he treated her as a precious, fragile treasure.

It was different than before. It was deeper in new ways. But Isla remembered it.

This was belonging. This was family. This was love.


End file.
